


I Have No Idea How the Rhinoceros Got There

by Riverdancekat09



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverdancekat09/pseuds/Riverdancekat09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rhinoceros is still easier to explain than the elf. An autumn storm delivers an unexpected, impossible visitor, and my comfortable routine is altered forever. (Originally published on Fanfiction.net; I'll post five chapters every week)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. By the pricking of my thumbs...

  1. **_By the pricking of my thumbs…_**   



            Rows upon rows of raw data. _Fake_ data, I might add—this is just a practice exercise. I’ve stopped staring at the tiny clock in the right-hand corner of my laptop screen; watching the precious seconds and minutes tick later and later into valuable sleeping time just depresses me. As I try to make sense of the numbers and descriptions in the cells— _fake_ numbers and descriptions—as I try to organize them into some semblance of coherence, only one thought circles in my tired brain.

            _Indiana Jones is a damn filthy liar._

            I’m not running for my life through a steaming jungle. I’m not chasing a priceless artifact. I don’t have a lady sidekick (though if I had to choose, I’d go with Marian). And I’m _definitely_ not trying to rescue my father from ruthless Nazis. No. I’m staring at data from a fake faunal assemblage, cramming it into an Excel file, and writing a report to be turned in for a grade, and my only companions in this trial of delightful pointlessness are my dog and three cats.

            A rushing breeze fills the white curtains as it whispers through the complex’s courtyard. There is a storm coming, and for a half-second I inhale and hope the promise of rain isn’t just another vicious tease the weatherman perpetrates just to torture the entire region. Scooter’s floppy black ears perk up; her wet nose twitches intently as she, too, picks up the storm’s scent. Virgil, Binx, and Toaster all abandon their postures of feline indifference and turn their attention to the open window. Watching. Waiting.

            At last, our vigil is rewarded. It begins slowly; the barest tap-tap-tap of single drops on dry concrete. Swiftly, though, the pace picks up, and soon the courtyard is filled with the hiss of rain forming puddles on the dry, parched ground. I can’t stop the broad grin spreading across my face as I listen with half-an-ear. The data doesn’t look so awful now, may even make sense a little.

            Thunder rumbles as the storm intensifies. Scooter whimpers anxiously and abandons her blanket on the couch to curl up at my feet. The cats scamper from their respective perches and slink into the empty bedroom, seeking refuge from an autumn storm that is swiftly becoming a gale. I do my best to keep my breathing even as lightning and thunder crack through the damp air. I am alone—Charlie is gone for the weekend on a company retreat. But I’m an adult, damn it—though that doesn’t stop me from digging my cell phone out of my pocket and putting it within close reach. For the moment, I resist calling him just for the comfort of his voice. We are all on edge.

            The storm continues to roar furiously outside; the curtains look like ghosts as they flap in the forceful wind whipping across the tiny porch. I dart outside to pull the cushion off the cheap IKEA patio chair—it’s already soaked but I drape it over the curtain rod in the bathroom anyway. I nearly trip on Scooter as I return to my chair at the kitchen table. The data is jumbled again; I shiver and pull my sweater closer around my shoulders.

            Everything seems to happen all at once: lightning crackles bright blue through the pitch-black night; the lights in my apartment wink out; and I shriek in alarm as Scooter begins to bark maddeningly. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a moment to realize I can still see. It isn’t much, but the laptop screen gives me enough light to fumble for candles and an old Bic lighter leftover from before Charlie quit smoking. I slam the window shut, and the curtains still themselves instantly. Thunder rattles the flimsy glass in their panes, and lightning continues to flash until it feels as though it is reaching inside my meager sanctuary.

            I lose it. Scooter follows me instinctively into the bathroom, doesn’t even whimper a protest as I unceremoniously pick her up and dump her into the bathtub and pull the wet patio cushion over us. I hold her shivering bulk close and squeeze my eyes shut against the primal terror; I babble nonsensical prayers into her black-and blue fur and it takes me a moment to realize I’m sobbing.

            I don’t know how long we lie there, cowering in the blackness. But the lights come back on, and I’m acutely aware of the wet cushion leaking its sorry wetness into my clothes and leeching the warmth from my skin. I let Scooter go, and she jumps daintily from the bathtub. She shakes vigorously and gives me a look that says she has no idea what we were hiding from. I grin sheepishly at her (what? You never treat your pets like they’re people?) and pull the bathroom door open.

            It only takes an instant for me to realize we are not alone.

            A man is stretched out awkwardly across the length of my couch. Scooter’s cheerful trot grinds to a halt as she takes stock of the stranger’s scent, and she growls a low warning. Without getting too close, I conduct my own investigation. His stark-white hair is a shock against the faded navy chenille fabric (a relic of my parents’ first apartment together). I feel my eyes go wide in absolute shock as I struggle to reconcile the reality of spiked armor and silver-blue markings against all I know to be possible and impossible. The coffee mugs and stacks of paper on the table rattle ominously as I back into it, bruising the small of my back. He groans and stirs, picks his head up from the worn couch cushion. He bolts upright in obvious alarm, reaching for a sword that isn’t there. He swivels his head around, taking stock of my cramped living room. Finally, his gaze settles on me, and I feel as though I’m speared to the spot.

            My life just got a lot more complicated.


	2. Something wicked this way comes

**2. _…Something wicked this way comes_**

            I cling to the hope that he is merely a man, dressed in costume, dedicated to a role. Scooter shivers at my side, pressed against my leg as though she could somehow disappear into it. I smile in my nervousness, paralyzed by the jet-green scowl. “Hi,” I stammer.

            All pretty illusions and fragile hopes of costumes perish as my voice seems to trigger something in him. The silent stalemate snaps, and somewhere between one second and the next I am bent backwards over the table. My entire life glows blue; Scooter _shrieks_ as I’ve never heard before and scrambles to get away. The tips of his gauntlets prick my skin and I can feel the tickle of blood moving slowly down my neck, but I do not dare move. Not while he has me by the throat.

He speaks, and his voice is like chocolate melting into coffee poured into red wine and I’m so busy _melting_ into it that I don’t register his words until he shakes me insistently. I choke and try to swallow past the vice-like grip. Tears prick hotly at the corners of my eyes, and I remember that he is beautiful and dangerous, and I’m _frightened_ , more frightened than I was of the storm, more frightened than I’ve ever been in my life. “Please,” I rasp as black spots dance like fairies in my field of vision. “Please let go.”

            “ _What have you done to me?_ ” he repeats. He shakes me by the throat again; I can feel his fingers sink through the skin and close around my larynx. It is the most surreal feeling in the world, and it fills me with an instinctive panic. I try to cry out, but all I can manage is a weak, gasping sob. I scrabble at the gauntlet, only to have my hands pass through almost-empty air. The table digs into my spine as I try to kick out. Mine is the desperate struggle of a trapped animal. Of its own volition my hand closes around one of the half-empty coffee mugs ( _how long has THAT been there? Gross_ ) and I dash the sludgy contents into his face.

            He releases me and staggers backwards, wiping coffee from his eyes. It is time enough to grab a chair and hold it aloft between us—a flimsy, pathetic shield, but it will serve. I hope. My throat feels bruised, and I’m having trouble breathing. I greedily gulp air in. We are back in stasis, each trying to reconcile the presence of the other.

            Scooter barks from the doorway to my bedroom. I try to keep the chair between myself and him as I struggle to quiet her. He’s watching warily; perhaps he’s afraid I’ll throw more coffee at him. Perhaps he just doesn’t like dogs. At last, Scooter is quiet, save for the occasional whimper. I return my attention to my visitor, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me this entire time.  Coffee is still dripping into his eyes from the tendrils of fine white hair. And my throat still hurts, but I take the high road and hold out a paper towel.

“Sorry about that,” I apologize inanely. “The bathroom’s just there, if you’d like to wash up.”

            He glares incredulously at me, and looks at the paper towel as though it might transform into a venomous snake at any moment. “What is this place?” he demands harshly. “How have you brought me here?”

            I fervently wish for the aluminum bat beside the bed—it’s lighter than the chair. But I don’t dare leave his sight to retrieve it. “We both have questions,” I dodge, in as calm a tone as I can muster. “I’m going to make a pot of tea, we’re both going to calm down, and we’ll talk like adults. But,” I add, since it seems important to lay down some ground rules, “harm my dog, or my cats, and I _will_ kill you.”


	3. Mad Hatter's Tea Party

**3. _Mad Hatter’s Tea Party_**

            He looks so awkward among the labyrinth of books and papers that it’s hard not to feel sorry for him, just a little. I clamp down on the primal fear he instills in me and turn my back to him. My spine is ramrod straight; _I am not afraid of him_ , I try to tell myself as I put water in the kettle and turn the stovetop as high as it will go. Mechanically I pull the teapot—tea leaves—infuser out of the cupboard, prepare them for the hot water. I feel his gaze, sharp as needles, on the nape of my neck, and have to resist the urge to hunch my shoulders. _I am not afraid of him._

            A whisper of sound, and suddenly he is in the kitchen with me. I jump, and the container of tea leaves tips its contents onto the countertop ( _damn, the last of the good Teavana stuff_ ). My hands shake as I scoop the mess into the sink. He is not as tall as I thought he would be, though that still puts him a few inches above my own height. The galley-style kitchen closes in, and I feel as though his gauntleted hand is closed around my neck again. The air drags in and out of my lungs; he is so _close_ and though he is short and lithe it feels like he takes up the entire _world_ with his sheer presence. But it’s on me to remain calm—I have my animals to think about and though it may seem a small thing to some, it is enough to light a spark of defiance within me. _Damned_ if I will let him shake me. “Yes?” I ask, and there is a haughtiness to my tone that makes part of me cringe at its foolishness. I do not look at him. If I look at him I will remember to be afraid of him. _I am not afraid of him_.

            “I am sorry,” he answers quietly, “for hurting you.”

            He has my attention now. I snap my eyes to his face: his gaze is on the bruised skin of my throat, the dark red dots where his gauntlets pierced the skin. They have already scabbed over; if I remember to leave them alone they will heal in a matter of days. He offers peace, and I find I no longer have to pretend to not be afraid of him. I offer him a wary smile in return. “I’m sorry I threw old coffee in your face—that can’t have been pleasant.”

            Something like humor glimmers behind the gravity of his expression. “It was not,” he concedes. He looks as though he might say more, but the business-like whistle of the kettle interrupts him. I pull it off the stove, pour the boiling water over the loose leaves, and set the timer on my microwave. All this, he watches with a rapt, almost fearful curiosity; my heart goes out to him as I try to imagine how frightening and strange my modern kitchen must be to him.

“Let’s start with the easy stuff,” I propose. “Names. Mine’s Erin.”

“And I am Fenris.”

Sanity screams in violent, bloody protest as another nail is driven into its coffin. I clench my hands into fists to keep them from trembling as the microwave timer goes off, as I pull the soggy tea leaves out of the pot and squeeze honey into the dark amber liquid. I knew his name. I _knew_ it was _him_. But Christ—to actually _hear_ him _say_ it—he’s real, he’s really standing in my kitchen, and we’re really having a conversation. “Okay,” I manage shakily. “Okay. Next question?”

He frowns as he watches me pour tea into two chipped mugs. The crease in his brow deepens as I lead him out of the kitchen and back onto my hand-me-down sofa. Steam curls toward the ceiling; the clock on the wall ticks into the pregnant silence. “Where _am_ I?” he whispers.

It is a lonely, lost question, one I don’t know how to answer, except sarcastically. “At the moment you’re in my living room.” I quail under his exasperated glare. “Sorry,” I mutter into my tea. “Texas. You’re in Texas.”

He nods like my answer means something to him. Then he seems to catch himself, and frowns again. “Tex-uhs?” he repeats ( _and my accent sounds REALLY WEIRD combined with his_ ).

“I can show you on a map, if you like.”

He nods gratefully. I pull my laptop toward me and pull up Google. With a few quick strokes across the keyboard, I have a Texas map on the screen. He’s watching my hands, watching the screen, and he is wide-eyed with fear and _fascination_ and I belatedly realize my mistake. “It’s okay,” I hasten to reassure him. “It’s just—it’s like a library,” ( _HOW do you explain the fucking INTERNET?_ ) “It can’t hurt you.”

“It’s glowing.”

“It’s just light, Fenris.” (W _here is Charlie when I need him? HE could explain plasma and LCD screens and the black magic that goes into making laptops._ )

He stares uncomprehendingly at the boundaries and names that mean nothing to him. I wonder if he can even read the names of the cities. “We’re here,” I offer, and point to a little dot somewhere south of Austin. “Mexico is this way”—I trace I-35 southward—“and my mother lives farther north, in Dallas.”

More thoughtful silence. “How did I _get_ here?” he demands. His voice is thick with confusion, frustration—panic. He is as close to utterly losing it as I am.

My heart breaks at my inability to answer his question satisfactorily. “What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask softly. I want to reach out, I want to _touch_ , to let him know he is not alone in this... _madness_ , but I know it would be a mistake.

He stares into the untouched mug of tea, eyes far away as he tries to remember. “An ambush—something went… _wrong_ somehow. A spell of Hawke’s, maybe—“

_Is he serious oh sweet Jesus he is serious he was with Hawke and now he’s with me—_

“—I remember lightning, and then I woke up here.”

There is no way I’m going to get through this if I try to stay sane. So what do I do?

Roll with it, Erin. Just roll with it.


	4. Do the crazy know they're crazy?

**_Do the crazy know they’re crazy?_ **

            I don't need to ask who Hawke is. I don't need to ask where Kirkwall is. As the clock ticks further into the night ( _or morning--is it really almost five?_ ) Fenris realizes I'm asking far fewer questions than any normal person might. Suspicion darts across his elven, utterly alien features, and I brace myself. "None of this seems to surprise you," he observes warily.

 

I surreptitiously shift on the couch and put my mug of tea on the coffee table (I've already doused him with coffee; tea just seems unnecessary after that). I glance at my console, at the game box placed neatly on top if the sleek black console. I could lie (or tell the truth). I could tell him I've just accepted insanity. I could tell him exactly how I know the things I know; I could even tell him one or two things he couldn't imagine I know.

 

I do none of these things.

 

I rise slowly from the sofa and grab the Xbox controller. I turn on the console (and try to smile reassuringly when he looks as though he might plunge his fist into my flat screen). If he can get through this, explaining electricity will be a snap. "Just--just tell me when you've had enough?" I say lamely.

 

I start a new game. Fenris's eyes are riveted to the TV as the intro plays itself out, as Varric delivers his snappy lines to the Chantry's Seeker. The mug cracks into pieces ( _and now my set's uneven; damn_ ) when Hawke tumbles gracefully across the screen and I pick a dialogue option almost at random. I pause the game.

 

"No," he rasps. "Keep going."

 

I stick with the default female Hawke appearance ( _anytime I tried to mess with the facial settings she always ended up looking a little lopsided_ ) and pick rogue as her class. I suppose I should mention that I look NOTHING like Hawke, something I know Fenris notices because he constantly alternates his attention between the screen and my face. I want to ask him what he sees (for the sake of my vanity) but refrain.

 

He's frozen. Go me; I've managed to send a delusion into catatonic shock. I pause the game again and put the controller down. He comes to with a snap, and thrusts it awkwardly back into my hands. "Keep going," he demands.

 

"Fenris this is insane--I shouldn't have started this--"

 

"You bade me tell you when I have seen enough," he reminds me harshly. "And I will. _Keep going_."

 

I reluctantly pick up where I left off. The tea has long since gone cold and I don't dare stop playing to make more. The familiar characters swim and blur across the screen; I find myself mouthing along with my favorite lines but stop when Fenris shoots me a withering glare. I guide Hawke through the first few quests, until it shows up in my quest log.

 

Bait and Switch.

 

I can't do this anymore. I pause and angle my torso away from the TV. "I am going to make myself the strongest drink I possibly can," I tell him, "and before we take one more step toward Crazy Town, I strongly suggest you have one too."

 

I drink like a girl. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I pull sweet tea vodka and orange liqueur out of my cabinet and pour them over ice. I squeeze a lemon into the mix and, because I think I've earned it, add a maraschino cherry from the jar Charlie keeps hidden in the back of the fridge. I bring tequila and several lime slices back to the coffee table with me, and plunk them in front of my guest. He gives me a baffled look.

 

"Really?" I drawl. "They really don't have tequila in Kirkwall?" I put my drink down and grab the bottle by the neck in one hand, and a slice of lime in the other. "Swig, then bite into the lime." I demonstrate ( _repressing a shudder; tequila and I haven't been friends since my junior year_ ) and hand him the bottle. "Let's do this thing."

 

“This thing” is worse than trying to explain the birds and the bees. It's worse than trying to gently break the news that Santa isn't real. I lead Hawke into the Alienage, into the booby-trapped house. I don't miss the relief on his face as I get my adventuring party in and out with no casualties; barely any scratches (speaking in terms of health and mana bars). I know what's coming, and I would give anything to take this burden from him. To spare him--

 

"Your men are dead, and your trap has failed."

 

\-- _THAT_.

 

Dawn is breaking dismally on the other side of my curtains. The weak gray light does nothing to chase out the sudden gloom, the heavy silence as Fenris gapes at his own face. At this point, I don't care he hasn't given me permission to stop the game--he's had enough. I save and shut everything down. The only sound left in the room is the clock ticking away seconds, minutes, a lifetime for all I know.

 

The only warning I get is the tell-tale heave of his shoulders. I dive over the back of the sofa and grab Scooter's water dish ( _gonna be scrubbing that with scalding hot water later_ ), thrust it into his lap. The sour odor of citrus and alcohol and vomit makes my nose wrinkle, and my own stomach heaves in sympathy. Fenris purges the poison from his system and slumps miserably over the tops of his thighs.

 

He doesn't resist as I lead him into the bathroom. I fill the sink with warm water and press a clean washcloth into his hands. He's just another drunk boy at a party, I tell myself. I'd do this for anyone. I set out a pair of Charlie's baggy cargo shorts and an old t-shirt, and close the bedroom door behind me (and have to open it immediately for Scooter). I relax when I hear the bed frame squeak.

 

I'd do this for anyone.

 

Really.


	5. Getting to know you

**_Getting to know you_ **

            7:30 am.

            I can’t escape it. Every clock in my apartment, from the paint-by-numbers stained glass wall clock, to my cheap wristwatch attests to the time with a cheerful malice every insomniac knows well. Noises are too loud; colors and lights are painful. And acting as a background to the chorus of birdsong and the life-saving gurgle of the coffee maker is the periodic squeak of the bed frame as someone tosses and turns in the other room.

            Silently I turn the knob and nudge the bedroom door open. Logic stirs faintly, feebly— _maybe Charlie came home early, it’s him I hear, I fell asleep over my work again and he came home without me noticing—_ and ultimately whimpers into oblivion as once again, I take in the moon-white hair, the tapered points of his ears, and the stark lines of his markings. I pull the door shut again, and have to stuff a fist between my teeth to stifle a sick giggle. _Of course he’s still here. I would have had to sleep for last night to be a mere dream._ I’m not sure what disappoints me more: that last night wasn’t a dream, or that I obviously didn’t get any sleep.

            I have to stop before I logic my way right into the loony bin.

            I drain my first cup of coffee in seconds. I’m adding cream and sugar to a second when the bedroom door rattles open, and my guest emerges. The contents of my stomach feel alarmingly buoyant as I realize that even hung-over and clearly miserable, he is still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s an elf thing. All I know is that he needs to get _home_ before I get us both into trouble.

            He’s leaning against the doorframe, staring into his surroundings with the same angry panic I saw in him the night before. Scooter darts under the coffee table, retreats until all I can see of her is her snout, twitching wildly as she takes in his scent. Good manners triumph over common sense, and I offer him my cup of coffee. I can always make more. “Hey,” I greet him softly.

            He slides his fingers through the mug’s handle, inhales the fragrant steam curling from the surface ( _one of the best smells in the world, no matter if said world has suddenly gone bat-shit loco_ ). “Are you trying to poison me again?”

            “Three-quarters of a bottle of tequila would poison anyone,” I retort dryly, “including most marine mammals and one or two extinct varieties of mammoth.” I immediately regret my glib sarcasm; he’s staring into the cup of coffee with the apprehension usually reserved for royal poison testers. “Coffee’s not for everyone,” I add, more gently, “but it’s not poison.”

            He takes a cautious sip. I can’t help feeling gratified as I watch the change happen instantaneously. Everyone has that one _thing_ that perks them up after a rough night, that one magic bullet that chases out the cobwebs, the nightmares, the crick in the neck after sleeping wrong. My morning just isn’t morning without a pot of coffee so strong the spoon stands upright in the cup.

            And it feels _really good_ to finally find a kindred spirit.

            I grin at him. He doesn’t exactly smile back, but the tight lines in his brow and around his mouth slowly smooth out. Good enough. It’s probably the best either of us will feel all day.

            He doesn’t take his eyes off my hands as I make a second pot of coffee. I’ve got it down to a science—nay, an _art_. I sense more than see him jump when the high-end bean grinder begins its cycle, but other than that he betrays no sign of fear as he just… _watches_ me. I know that look: it’s the look Charlie gets when he watches computer code run. I think it’s the look _every_ man gets when he’s figuring out how something works. The machine growls diligently as it drips coffee into the carafe. He watches it drip for a little while, drinking his coffee; before long, though, he looks at me and I just _know_ he’s going to start asking _questions_.

            “You know who I am,” he says softly.

            “You’re Fenris,” I answer, stupidly. “And I’m Erin. I thought we covered this.”

            He slams his cup onto the counter; liquid sloshes over the sides and onto the cheap beige laminate all apartments seem to have. “No,” he snaps impatiently, “you know who I _am_. You know who I was before… _this_.” He shoves his tattooed arm practically under my nose, and I finally understand what he’s asking. And heartily wish I didn’t. I feel like I need another drink. I feel like I need a _thousand_ more drinks. I will be wasted all weekend, if I drink every time he asks a question.

            Since I don’t have nearly enough alcohol on hand to accomplish this drunk, I will have to settle for sober. I nudge his arm out of my face with my shoulder and prepare a cup of coffee for myself. “Yeah, I know who you are,” I admit.

            “Tell me.” He’s looking at me like I am the answer to every prayer and every curse he’s ever thrown out into the unhearing void.

            I can’t look at him as I tell him the story, pieced together from the Act III personal quest and the codex entries I looked up on Wikipedia while he slept. I can’t look at him as I tell him of Varania, the sister who sells him to become one of the hated magisters, the dread revelation than the markings were a prize he competed for. He looks like he might heave up his coffee as he asks me _why_ , in a voice that shouldn’t belong to anything living, man or beast.

            “In the game, you did it to free her, and your mother,” I answer softly. Carefully, I lay a hand on his shoulder, taking great care not to touch his skin. As a gesture of comfort, it feels woefully inadequate; these are the things my family likes to hug out, with lots of crying and ice cream. This still, silent grief is completely alien to me. I feel as though the only reason my hand is still attached to my wrist is not that Fenris accepts my pathetic sympathy, but that like a wounded, feral beast, he just hurts too much to notice. Or care. “On the plus side,” I continue feebly, “you shove your hand through Danarius’s chest and rip his living heart out. And Hadriana’s, though that happens a bit earlier in the game. So there’s—there’s that.” My hand drops limply from his shoulder. He doesn’t move. I’m stuck between him and the refrigerator; the hallway to the rest of the apartment is on his other side. I curl my hands around my rapidly cooling mug of coffee, not knowing what else to do with them.

            It feels like we stand there for hours, trapped in bleeding limbo. I have no mechanism, no experience to understand what he’s going through. Digital minutes tick by on the microwave clock, as we stand in terrible, aching silence.

            It’s Scooter who ends up saving the day. I don’t notice she’s wiggled out from under the coffee table until she’s easing her way into the kitchen. She sniffs the air, her wet nose twitching in Fenris’s general direction ( _did you know dogs can pick up your scent from as far away as five feet?_ ). Emboldened by the olfactory interview, she trots forward and sits at his feet. He jerks out of whatever trance has been holding him captive and I can see he’s surprised to have fifty-odd pounds of blue-heeler-mix dog flesh sitting on his foot. Ears back, nose up, and eyes on his face, Scooter’s almost completely still; her only movement is to lean ever so slightly into his leg. Tentatively, he reaches one hand down to scratch behind her ears. Her tail twitches perfunctorily and she leans into the attention, closing her eyes halfway in doggy bliss.

            And just like that, the curse is broken. “I have…many more questions,” he says. His entire demeanor has changed. He’s looking at me again, and I can see all the things he wants to know hovering in his face.

            I’ve gone a little gooey over the fact he’s getting along with my dog—not everyone does. Plus his eyes are just so…. _big_ , and so _green_ that I get a bit lost in them for a couple heartbeats. “Ask anything you want,” I say a little breathlessly.

            “Is there any more coffee?”

            I can’t help it. I laugh and fall in love just a little bit. “All you want, babe.”


End file.
